JUST DO(ING) IT, part 1

I was feeling great last Wednesday. I was out on the field, my second shift, and I knew I was going to score in this soccer game. I had already determined, from the first shift, that I "owned" the defender on the other team - and besides, my kids were there watching and I wanted to show them that "Mama's got game". I was heading up the left wing, making eye contact with my teammate who had the ball behind me on the opposite field. I went to cut in towards the front of the net and then everything went into slow motion.
I thought I was hit from behind by an errant baseball traveling at 80 mph.(There are batting cages beside the field, and they were being used.) At the same time, my left leg buckled under me and I heard this tremendously loud "pop". While I looked around on the ground for the baseball so that I could fire it angrily back in the direction it came from, I asked the defender on the other team, "Did something hit me?"
She said, "No, that was all you...and I heard the "pop", too."
As I became more and more confused, the pass from my teammate arrived which I stopped with my right hand.  *Personal to TF: Boss pass, my friend!
The play had stopped by then, the Ref was asking me if I was ok, and when I tried to walk over to the bench, I knew something was really wrong. The weirdest, and most amazing thing though, was this protective, athletic, euphoric-type shock I went in to; no screaming in agony, no crying, no panic...just thirsty, and a little cold. I was carried to the bench, and while somebody went for ice, I asked for my jacket. As I was putting it on, I could feel my cell phone vibrating. Who the heck is texting me right now? I took it out, looked at it, and it was from my son.
"MAMA WHAT HAPPENED?"
Oh shit. My kids are here!!! I look across the field, and there's Adam, staring at me with one arm around each of his sisters. I give him a 'thumb's up' and I write back, "I'm ok. I think I just pulled a muscle."
"IS ANYTHING BROKEN?" he writes.
"No, nothing's broken, Buddy!"...except my heart- and maybe a little bit of my spirit, I neglect to add.

I'm taken to the ER, where my sainted and most patient BFF meets me; magazines, water, lifesavers, gum, and peanut butter crackers in tow. By now, I'm starting to question myself- Who do I think I am? How am I going to manage this? What am I thinking, playing soccer at forty-something? and, more immediate, I am supposed to board a plane Monday for a sweet and swanky stay in Georgetown for the week. I don't have time for a COLD, never mind something like this...
I'm told by the Doctor that "Unfortunately, you have ruptured your Achilles tendon and you need surgery ASAP." Excellent. So I guess all bets are off for me? "Yes. For the next 6-8 weeks, kiddo", says the Doc.

I'm wheeled, yes- "wheeled" into a room for a temporary cast that will hold me over until Friday's surgery. My questions about playing soccer "at my age" soften up as I take the middle of three beds- between two guys, both around 40-50 years old- dressed in full hockey regalia- having various parts of their faces stitched back together. My cast hardens up, I'm given crutches and sent home so I can talk to the Doctor about the upcoming surgery.